give this great ritual which is but
copied from the same eternal model. There is poetry that is like the white
light of noon, and poetry that has the heaviness of woods, and poetry that
has the golden light of dawn or of sunset; and I find in the poetry of
Mr. Bridges in the plays, but still more in the lyrics, the pale colours,
the delicate silence, the low murmurs of cloudy country days, when the
plough is in the earth, and the clouds darkening towards sunset; and had I
the great gift of praising, I would praise it as I would praise these
things.

1896.

IRELAND AND THE ARTS

The arts have failed; fewer people are interested in them every
generation. The mere business of living, of making money, of amusing
oneself, occupies people more and more, and makes them less and less
capable of the difficult art of appreciation. When they buy a picture it
generally shows a long-current idea, or some conventional form that can be
admired in that lax mood one admires a fine carriage in or fine horses in;
and when they buy a book it is so much in the manner of the picture that
it is forgotten, when its moment is over, as a glass of wine is forgotten.
We who care deeply about the arts find ourselves the priesthood of an
almost forgotten faith, and we must, I think, if we would win the people
again, take upon ourselves the method and the fervour of a priesthood. We
must be half humble and half proud. We see the perfect more than others,
it may be, but we must find the passions among the people. We must
baptize as well as preach.

The makers of religions have established their ceremonies, their form of
art, upon fear of death, on the hope of the father in his child, upon the
love of man and woman. They have even gathered into their ceremonies the
ceremonies of more ancient faiths, for fear a grain of the dust turned
into crystal in some past fire, a passion that had mingled with the
religious idea, might perish if the ancient ceremony perished. They have
renamed wells and images and given new meanings to ceremonies of spring
and midsummer and harvest. In very early days the arts were so possessed
by this method that they were almost inseparable from religion, going side
by side with it into all life. But, to-day, they have grown, as I think,
too proud, too anxious to live alone with the perfect, and so one sees
them, as I think, like charioteers standing by deserted chariots and
holding broken reins in their hands, or se